


a, b, c

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School Teachers, Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, Biology Teacher Newt, Halloween, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Physics Teacher Hermann, the three big ms, unintentional mild angst? but with a happy ending!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 05:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: His only respite from teenagers and Newton Geiszler is being forcefully ripped out from under him, and Hermann is powerless to stop it.(or: newt and hermann dick around, get forced to chaperone a school dance together, and maybe talk about their feelings)





	a, b, c

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeleton_twins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/gifts).



> happy back to school! before my semester gets too wild im posting some more fic, specifically, school-themed fic. (expect some more Professors fic too. i just Love Them.)
> 
> inspired by a series of conversations on twitter with my lovely friend skeleton_twins/erica about high school teachers newmann. also, september is basically halloween. tis the season!

Newton Geiszler is a constant thorn in Hermann’s side. The bane of his existence. The reason Hermann has seriously contemplated turning in his notice and finding employment elsewhere at least three times this year alone. And, tragically, Newton Geiszler is the owner of the classroom right next to Hermann’s. Hermann suspects, often, that Newton gets off on making Hermann’s life miserable in any way he possibly can. He has a loud, unruly homeroom he refuses to control. He never tidies up after himself or his classes in the—shared, because the school is horribly underfunded—lab. He insists on eating lunch with Hermann and making _small talk_ with him every day instead of leaving Hermann to his breaks in peace. (And Hermann _knows_ Newton loathes the small talk just as much as he does. He’s merely playing some type of sadistic game where they both lose.)

Today, however, Newton has crossed a line.

Hermann doesn’t even care that he’s interrupting Newton’s afternoon senior Chemistry lab—underfunding also means Newton is the resident biology, marine biology, _and_ chemistry instructor—when he storms in, furious, and says “ _Newton_ ,” loudly enough that the entire class stops what they’re doing and swivels in his direction. Newton, dressed in a too-long lab coat and goggles the size of half his face, also stops, mid-lecture.

“Uh, hi, Hermann?” he says. He’s holding a beaker of some chemical Hermann doesn’t care to learn to know the name of, poised over another beaker resting atop a Bunsen burner. “Is this important? I’m kind of in the middle of—”

“You stole my lunch,” Hermann says.

Newton squints at him through the goggles. Playing ignorant, so it seems. “What?”

“You _stole_ my _lunch_ ,” Hermann repeats, “from the break room. I know it was you.”

Newton set the beaker down on the bench carefully. “What are you talking about, man? I didn’t touch your lunch.” He looks pointedly between his beaker and Hermann. “Seriously, can’t this wait, like, ten minutes?”

Hermann doesn’t give a single damn that Newton’s teaching a class or in the middle of an experiment. He’s had _enough_ of him. “No, it cannot! I had a sandwich in the fridge and now it’s missing—”

“Oh my God, Hermann—”

“—until you learn to respect me—”

“It’s a _sandwich_!”

“Dr. Geiszler?” one of Newton’s students says, and Newton waves him off.

“Just a second,” he says. “Dr. Gottlieb is delusional—”

“You are the only person who would stoop as low as to do something like this!”

“Except I _didn’t_.”

“Dr. Geiszler,” another student says, “uh—”

“I simply want an apology—”

“—I wouldn’t eat something you made in a million—”

“Dr. Geiszler, the burner—”

“You’re acting like an ass—like a _jerk_ , Hermann—”

“ _You’re_ acting like a—!”

“Dr. Geiszler!”

“ _What_?” Newton exclaims, whirling around, and that’s when whatever is in the beaker atop the Bunsen burner has a _nasty_ reaction to the prolonged heat and suddenly shoots out over the sides. Newton’s class shrieks and ducks beneath their lab tables, Newton stumbles against the whiteboard, swearing, and Hermann himself nearly drops his cane and trips back in surprise.

Luckily, the chemical compound doesn’t go too far, simply oozes across Newton’s instructor table with a menacing sizzling noise. It appears to be eating through the resin. Newton peers at it, then looks sheepishly at his class, who are slowly poking their heads back up. “Uh,” Newton says. “Class dismissed?”

 

The chewing-out Stacker Pentecost gives them is nothing like Hermann’s ever experienced before. It’s more than earned, he supposes. Hermann _was_ being unprofessional. He _should’ve_ known better than to interrupt Dr. Geiszler when Dr. Geiszler was in the middle of performing an experiment with potentially volatile chemicals. Just as well, Newton was _also_ being unprofessional, should’ve been paying attention to his experiment rather than allowing Hermann and their petty, ridiculous rivalry to distract him and possibly endanger his students.

“As punishment,” Pentecost says, as Hermann and Newton hang their heads like _they’re_ the students, “you two will be chaperoning the school dance this weekend. Alone. Together.”

“Chaperoning the dance?” Newton says, looking up quickly, at the same time Hermann says “ _Together_?”

Hermann does not find the idea even remotely appealing: too many teenagers and hormones crammed into the small school gym, people spilling drinks everywhere, loud pop music blaring from speakers. And on the weekend, too—his only respite from teenagers and Newton Geiszler is being forcefully ripped out from under him, and Hermann is powerless to stop it. “Sir—” he protests.

Pentecost holds up a single finger. “Be thankful this is your _only_ punishment,” Pentecost says, sternly, and Hermann shuts his mouth immediately, though he’s not quite sure what could be worse than this. Mandatory group therapy sessions with Newton and the guidance counselor, perhaps, like Pentecost threatened when Hermann and Newton got into a shouting match in the middle of the hallway over who-remembers-what. (Hermann nearly shivers at the thought.) The faintest hint of a smile crosses Pentecost’s face. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he says.

Hermann knows dismissal when he sees it. He and Newton mumble _thank you, sir_ s and _goodbye_ s before excusing themselves from Pentecost’s office.

They don’t talk on their walk back down to their classrooms. Hermann listens to his cane clack against the linoleum, the squeaking of the rubber soles of Newton’s boots. Newton’s still got his safety goggles on, pushed up on top of his head, the sleeves of his lab coat rolled up over the winding sea creatures inked onto his arms. “For the record,” Newton finally says once they reach his classroom, “I _really_ didn’t steal your sandwich.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermann hisses.

 

Hermann finds his sandwich in the back of the fridge an hour later, hidden behind a few Tupperware containers and a can of soda. He does not mention this to Newton.

 

* * *

  

Pentecost forwards Newton and Hermann the details of the dance the following evening over email. They don’t have to help set up or decorate, thankfully, the seniors have taken on that task, but they _are_ expected to arrive an hour early and leave an hour late to oversee everything through clean-up. Seven to midnight, Hermann will be stuck with no one but Newton Geiszler for conversation.

“At least it’s Halloween themed, right?” Newton says, when he and Hermann find themselves alone in the teacher’s lounge the next day. It’s the first word either has said to the other about their Situation. Newton watches Hermann carefully. “Halloween is fun.” Newton loves Halloween. He has for as long as Hermann’s known him. The moment October 1st rolls around, faux cobwebs and light-up Styrofoam pumpkins appear all over Newton’s classroom, and Newton switches out his usual—ridiculous—monochrome skinny ties for even _more_ ridiculous ones patterned with little skeletons and bats and ghosts and starts spiking his morning coffee with seasonal creamer.

Hermann has no such fondness for Halloween, which Newton is _well_ aware of. Perhaps more than most. 

 

* * *

Hermann and Newton used to get along. They used to get along _very_ well, actually.

* * *

 

It's 2016 and Newton is drunk, as drunk as Hermann, and he’s flung himself across Hermann and is giggling madly. He’s lost his flimsy cape and plastic fangs some time back, but his hair is still slicked back, and fake blood stains the corner of his lips in an artificial dribble. There’s chocolate smeared across Newton’s chin, too, and his tongue is stained blue with Fun Dip. “I have _no clue_ how I’m getting home,” Newton says. “I can’t even—even _stand_.” Hermann blinks down at him blearily, grin wide, and Newton reaches up unsteadily to poke at his glasses and nearly knocks Hermann’s beer from his hand.

It’s just the two of them in Hermann’s living room; Newton came over to help hand out candy to trick-or-treaters, but that quickly devolved into watching TCM, drinking their way through the two six packs Newton brought with him, and eating all the candy themselves. _Frankenstein_ is on now, and the corner of the screen promises _Re-Animator_ next, but Hermann stopped paying attention during _House of Wax_ an hour prior. That was when Newton’s head migrated to Hermann’s lap and Hermann’s hand migrated to Newton’s gelled hair and Newton started making the most interesting little purring noises. Almost like a cat.

“Stay the night,” Hermann murmurs, and perhaps he means it like _that_ , and perhaps he doesn’t, but then Newton is dragging him down by the collar of his shirt and stealing a messy, biting kiss. Their _first_ kiss.

Hermann can feel Newton’s lips curving up into a smile. “Okay,” Newton says.

 

Hermann takes Newton to bed, like he’s wanted to for months, _years_ , ever since Hermann transferred to the school and Newton waltzed into his classroom and started imposing himself in Hermann’s life five seconds after introducing himself _._ They’re giddy, and inexperienced, and the alcohol has given everything a pleasant haze to it, and when Newton rips Hermann’s shirt off to toss it to the floor the buttons go pinging across the room. (“Whoops,” Newton giggles.) Hermann kisses him again and again and he tastes like beer and candy and Newton’s above him, around him, making the _sweetest_ noises, and Hermann never wants it to end.

 

(“Happy Halloween,” Newton mumbles afterwards, pressed tight to Hermann’s chest.)

 

They’re both _incredibly_  hungover for work the next day. Newton doesn’t have enough time to run home and get ready, so he ends up stealing both Hermann’s shower and a too-long sweater to wear with his costume slacks. They don’t acknowledge the night before as they dress, nor when Hermann—fumblingly—finds the ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet and they each swallow down at least four tablets, nor when Newton makes them each travel mugs of coffee and shoves one in Hermann’s hand. They don’t talk about it on the drive to school, and Hermann turns on NPR just to fill the silence. It’s not until he’s parked and shut the car off that Newton finally says something—the third thing he’s said all morning, after “fuck, we have work in two hours” and “can I borrow something to wear?”.

“So,” Newton says. “Last night.”

“Last night,” Hermann agrees.

(There’s a hickey on Newton’s neck the sweater doesn’t quite cover.)

Newton’s smiling a little, and Hermann knows it must be one of pity, knows what’ll come next—the gentle let down, the _it didn’t mean anything_ , the _let’s still be friends_ , because Newton has _never_ shown interest in Hermann sober so he _can’t_ mean what happened. He’s not sure if he can take hearing Newton say it aloud. He decides to beat Newton to it, present him with the out. “We should forget about it,” Hermann says quickly.

The smile slips from Newton’s face. “We should?”

“Well,” Hermann says, “we weren’t in our right minds, were we?”

“I guess—” Newton swallows. “No, we weren’t. We should keep it—yeah.”

“Professional,” Hermann says, and Newton nods, swallowing again.

“Professional. Yeah.” He’s fiddling with the door handle. “Glad we’re on the same page. Cool. See you inside.” He ducks out and slams the door behind him.

 

Newton avoids him for the week after that. He stops showing up for their usual shared lunches. He stops making up flimsy excuses to stop by Hermann’s classroom and talk or—if no students are around—sit on Hermann’s desk and mess about with his belongings. It carries on to the next week, and the week after that, and Newton stops inviting Hermann over for takeaway or going out to the movies and he stops cleaning up properly when he finishes up a lab right before Hermann is scheduled for the space.

Hermann confronts him about it, of course—hadn’t they agreed to remain friends? He _desperately_ wants to remain friends—and Newton just laughs in his face. A little viciously.

“I thought you wanted to stay _professional_ ,” Newton says.

“You left a dissected _baby octopus_ on the instructor bench today,” Hermann says. “That’s not exactly professional, Newton!”

“Yeah, well,” Newton’s gone shrill, like he always does when he’s angry, “neither is fucking me and then—”

“Lower your _voice_ ,” Hermann hisses, and his eyes dart frantically around the hallway. School let out some half hour prior so there’s no one around, but that doesn’t mean Newton should be shouting their personal business to the high heavens for anyone to hear. He snags Newton’s arm, tugs him gently in the direction of Hermann’s empty classroom. “Please, Newton, let’s continue this conversation in _private_.”

“ _No_ ,” Newton says petulantly, and rips his arm away hard. Newton's expression immediately floods with guilt—he catches sight of the stinging  _hurt_ on Hermann's face, perhaps—but after Newton's horrid behavior and refusal to talk to Hermann like an adult and pathetic moping, it just enrages Hermann. Typical of Newton, isn’t it, to spin it all to make himself the victim when Hermann’s the one nursing a broken heart here. Maybe he hoped Hermann would be desperate enough to agree to some sort of no-strings-attached sex-whenever-Newton-wants-it arrangement. “Oh, shit, man, I’m sorry, we can talk—”

“Must you always be such a _child_ about everything?” Hermann spits out, and turns on his heel. Newton doesn’t try to follow him.

 

* * *

 

The dance is everything Hermann dreaded and more. He manages to avoid Newton during setup, though it requires a certain strategic amount of ducking behind poles, but the second the overhead lights dim and the multicolored strobes come on in their place, Newton suddenly materializes with two red solo cups where Hermann leans against the gym wall. “No thank you,” Hermann says on impulse when Newton hands one out to him.

“It’s just punch,” Newton says. “It’s not spiked or anything.” Hermann still doesn’t take it. Newton rolls his eyes, but sidles up closer alongside Hermann anyway. He sips at one of the cups. “I can’t believe you didn’t dress up,” Newton continues. “It’s part of the _theme_.”

“I dressed up,” Hermann says.

Newton looks from Hermann’s sweater-vest, to his blazer, to his slacks, and raises his eyebrow. “Really?” he says. “What’d you dress up as, a massive nerd?” Hermann rolls his eyes, but pulls a pair of plastic vampire fangs from his blazer pocket and slips them on. Newton snorts. “So, what, vampire librarian? Hot.”

“What are _you_ , then?” Hermann says, though it comes out mildly unintelligible, on account of the fangs. He slips them off and repeats the question.

“I’m a mad scientist!” Newton says, and then slides his oversized goggles down his face. He’s in his usual work lab coat and red gloves that go up to his elbows, and his hair—Hermann notices—is somewhat gelled up. Likely for the appearance of some type of electrocution. He looks—cute. Instantly, Hermann is reminded of when he still considered Newton an acquaintance, when his immediate reaction to Newton popping his head into Hermann’s classroom was to feel his heart flutter rather than immense, burning...embarrassment? Mild shame? Not hatred. It could never be that easy.

“Hm,” Hermann says. He taps his fingers on the head of his cane. After a moment’s consideration, he takes the punch from Newton.

“Cool.” Newton grins. He sidles a little closer. “What does _chaperone_ mean, anyway? Make sure these kids don’t sneak off behind the bleachers or whatever?”

“I suppose that’s part of it,” Hermann says. He’ll let Newton deal with that if it comes to it. The students _like_ Newton—Newton manages to straddle the line between _approachable_ and _respected_ when it comes to being an authority figure, while Hermann rests hopelessly in _intimidating_.

Newton seems intent on continuing the conversation. “Apparently Mako and Becket would’ve been on chaperone duty if we hadn’t fucked up,” he says, mournfully. “ _Man_. I could be sleeping right now.”

Hermann sips the punch.

“I never went to dances in high school,” Newton continues. “I wasn’t cool enough. No one would ever want to dance with me, you know, since I was just this tiny little geeky guy, and it got kind of boring just—standing around. Like we are now. History repeating itself.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” Hermann deadpans. Newton falls silent; Hermann’s stomach immediately twists with guilt.

Hermann’s not sure who made the playlist they’ve put on over the loudspeakers, but he hasn’t recognized any of it until now, when the Monster Mash starts playing and Newton perks up. “Hey,” Newton says, and he starts to move his hips in a way that Hermann cannot even begin to describe, “wanna dance, man?” He sets his cup down on the ground, wiggling his hips back and forth a little faster.

“What are you— _no_ ,” Hermann says, but Newton’s begun—he doesn’t know what to call it, really. He’s worked some sort of thrusting into the wiggling, hands at his waist, teeth digging into his bottom lip in concentration.

“It’s the monster mash, Hermann,” Newton says.

“That’s not the monster mash. I don’t quite know _what_ that is.” Newton gyrates his hips, runs his gloved hand through his hair in a way that might be considered _seductive_ if it were anyone but Newton, and Hermann has to stifle a laugh by pretending to take another sip of his drink. A few students have begun to watch. “Newton,” he says, “they’re _staring_.” He and Newton are meant to be the _authority_ figures.

Newton’s grin is wide when he picks his punch back up and reclaims his spot against the wall. “Just like high school,” he says, and Hermann’s surprised to find himself smiling. It’s the first civil conversation he’s had with Newton in years. So of course Newton has to ruin it by elbowing Hermann and saying “At least I have a date tonight, though, huh?”

Hermann’s smile turns into a scowl; his shoulders stiffen. "Don’t.”

“I just meant,” Newton says, “that we’re here, together, you and I—”

“ _Newton_.”

Newton sighs. “Hermann,” he says quietly, “it’s been _two years_ , can’t we talk about it?”

Hermann thrusts his cup back at Newton. “What is there to talk about?”

“I don’t _know_ , man,” Newton says. “Maybe the fact that you—” he looks around, chewing his lip, “—look. I didn’t expect you to want a relationship, or whatever, but to just act like it meant nothing and that I should just forget about it _kind of_ made me feel like shit.”

Hermann frowns; he’s unsure of where to begin. “You agreed that we should forget about it,” he says.

“ _Yeah_ , only because you—” Newton lets out a long, frustrated huff. “Look, Hermann, I just miss being your friend, okay? I’m sorry you don’t feel the same way I do—”

Anger swells in Hermann once more. “ _I’m_ sorry you feel the need to reiterate why you don’t want me two _entire_ years later—”

“Hold on,” Newton says, and he straightens up so he’s no longer slouching, but looking at Hermann directly, “wait, wait, stop. Why I don’t want you? What are you talking about?”

“I thought it was abundantly clear,” Hermann says. “You regretted our—indiscretion, I simply wanted to make it as painless for you as possible, you responded by acting _wildly_ immature.”

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newton says, in such a way that Hermann’s breath catches in his throat, “I didn’t regret it. Not at all.”

“You—didn’t?”

Color rises to Newton’s cheeks. “Dude,” he says, “that was the best night of my life. I’m _kind of_ insanely into you. You didn’t—?”

“The best—?” Hermann says, and before he can help himself he laughs. “Newton. I never regretted it. I thought _you_ did.” The full effect of Newton’s words sink in. “You’re— _into_ me?”

“Maybe,” Newton says, red. “A little. Did I say that I was?”

“Well. That’s—good to know,” Hermann says, also red. “I feel the same, of course.”

“Oh,” Newton says. “ _Oh_.”

They smile at each other, a bit shyly.

 

They lock the gym doors at precisely one minute past midnight, once the very last student has driven off or been picked up by a parent. At precisely eleven minutes past midnight, Hermann finds himself with a lapful of Newton in the backseat of his own car, Newton gyrating his hips like he had earlier on the dance floor—but in a distinctly filthier fashion—and stripping Hermann out of his clothing. “Just to clarify,” Newton pants, shoving his freshly-degloved hand up Hermann’s freshly-unbuttoned shirt, “this _does_ mean something to both of us.”

“Absolutely,” Hermann nearly moans. “Oh, Newton—”

“You’re not going to give me some sort of bullshit _let’s be friends_ speech and make me cry in the bathroom for twenty minutes again?”

Newton’s hand is doing something very interesting over his pecs, but Hermann barely notices. “You cried for twenty minutes?”

Newton won’t meet his eyes. “Uh. No.”

Hermann wraps his arms around Newton and pulls him flush against him, uncaring that they’ve lost their frantic, needy pace. “Newton,” he says, as Newton tries to wiggle his hand out from between their chests, “why don’t we take it...slow, this time? To avoid misunderstandings?”

“Slow,” Newton repeats.

“We could reserve this activity for a _bed_ , for example,” Hermann continues. “Perhaps start with dinner.”

Newton sits back, his head nearly brushing the roof of the car. He never even bothered taking off his lab coat. “Okay,” he says, broad grin on his face. “Yeah, I can do that.”

 

* * *

 

Halloween falls on a Wednesday this year, so Newton just hops in Hermann’s car the second the halls have cleared out and they’re free to go. They haven’t seen much of each other this week—after their little almost-tryst in Hermann’s car on Saturday, Hermann drove Newton home so he wouldn’t have to worry about catching a bus (Newton kissed him goodbye, long and lingering), and the following two week days were spent casting shy glances across the teacher’s lounge and down the hallway at each other. Pentecost seems relieved they aren’t at each other’s throats anymore.

(Tuesday evening, Newton texts and asks if he wants to do something for Halloween—Hermann says yes, of course.)

Newton’s reused his mad scientist Halloween costume from the dance for today—or perhaps he just neglected to change from his morning lab—and he’s buzzing with excitement all the way from the parking lot to Hermann’s driveway. “I didn’t bring any candy or anything,” he says. “I hope that’s cool. I’ll pay for a pizza if you want to order it—”

“Nonsense,” Hermann says. “I have it covered.” He bought a bag of Newton’s favorite candy the moment Newton suggested they get together, but no beer—if what he hopes happens tonight _does_ happen, he wants to remember every moment of it.  

They end up splitting the cost of a pizza at Newton’s insistence and sit an arm’s length apart from each other on the sofa as they eat. The television is on again, tuned in to _The Blob_. They haven’t had any trick-or-treaters yet, but half the candy Hermann bought is gone anyway, lost to Newton’s appetite.

Newton keeps sneaking glances at him. He’s shrugged off his labcoat, finally, revealing an orange button-up and gaudy light-up Halloween tie. It’s an eyesore. Hermann can't help but love it. “Hermann,” Newton says, and he settles his hand on Hermann’s knee. “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh,” Hermann says, pleasantly surprised. “Please.”

Newton kisses him. It’s slow, unlike their kisses of two years prior or Saturday night, and gentle. He cups the side of Hermann’s face, slides his fingers through Hermann’s hair. He pulls away, leaving Hermann dazed and clinging to his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Newton says, “for acting like a dumbass. I was so pissed at myself for screwing everything up. I really thought you...knew.”

“Knew?” Hermann says, wanting very much to kiss Newton again.

“I’m more than just kinda into you, dude,” Newton says, grinning sheepishly. “A _lot_ more. And—I don’t know. I was hurt. That’s not a good excuse for acting like a complete asshole for two fucking years, but—”

“It’s not,” Hermann agrees, curling his hand around the back of Newton’s neck, “but I’m not completely blameless either.”

“We’re both dumb,” Newton says, and then he kisses him again, another chaste little peck. On screen, the Blob is defeated, and the credits start to roll, but Newton and Hermann are otherwise preoccupied.

 

* * *

 

Their working relationship improves _vastly_ after that. Much to the confusion of their students.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at the usual spots, twitter at hermanngaylieb and tumblr at hermannsthumb (where i post ficlets frequently!)


End file.
